


Suture

by manhattan



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Friendship, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Scars, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 14:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: Shepard’s new scars don’t stop at the skin. Garrus helps her figure it out.





	Suture

**Author's Note:**

> this was written a long time ago, but i stumbled across it recently and decided i still very much enjoyed this fic. it always bothered me how little the second game mentions shepard's death apart from tidbits like, "hey didn't you die?" "yep" "oh cool you got better", so here is me looking into it a little more!

The Normandy-SR2 was quiet now, humming softly beneath Shepard's feet.

She pushed off the door of her new cabin, joints aching, and found herself staring at the empty aquarium. A needless, superfluous thing; she felt a brief wave of irritation wash over her. Then it passed, and she was only left with the foamy exhaustion.

In here, even the blue of the water seemed artificial. Shepard pressed her hand against the glass, watched her own fingers splaying out, and wondered if she'd made a mistake. Her reflection, tinged a melancholic color, didn't offer any sort of consolation, but Shepard took the time to analyze herself anyway.

The escape from the Cerberus facility had been hectic, and there had been no time to rest before she'd been thrown into other missions. Freedom's Progress had been a horrible breakthrough—a rude awakening—and Omega's sick-ridden slums had put her into the ever-familiar fight or flight mechanism. Amidst the plague, the gangs, and Mordin's enthusiasm, she’d had no time to properly assess the situation she found herself in. There was only the _then_ , and how to fix it.

But now? Now the Normandy was docked and still, and there was nothing Shepard could distract herself with. The thoughts she had been packing away for later came sliding down her mental shelves, eager to be opened and inspected.

Shepard stared at her hand again.

When she'd been seventeen, she'd nicked the skin between thumb and index finger with the slide of a semi-automatic. It had taken her two weeks to heal, and the scar had stayed. There was nothing there, now.

Shepard thought it was fitting, perhaps even ironic, and let her hand fall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She found herself browsing her body after her morning rituals, during the brief minutes between stepping out of the shower and putting her armor on. Toweling herself off, Shepard analyzed the inside of her elbows, where the little puncture marks had whitened already. She wondered how long it would take her to heal, how long until her new body erased those off her skin, too. The thought of it nauseated her – she had never cared for scars until she realized she would never have them again.

Of course the red gleam of her cheekbones remained, the mocking exception to the rule. Those scars … faintly glowing and smooth to the touch like humming metal. Shepard didn't like those scars, didn't like what they meant, what they made her assume. What they made her fear.

Her freckles, scattered across the bridge of her nose, were a safety net – she recognized each individually, and that made her breathe easy for a while – but Shepard kept falling in the trap of trying to understand what lay beneath: flesh or tech? How much had they slid under the exterior? How would she know if she was still—

"Commander Shepard?"

It was EDI, calling through the intercom.

Shepard startled, glancing away from the sink's mirror, now acutely aware of how long she'd taken in the bathroom. She found herself checking for cameras before she remembered she'd already scanned the cabin.

She'd found nothing but listening devices, heat sensors and top-of-the-line biometric readers. The only camera on this floor was in the elevator, but that just made her keep wondering if she'd missed one, if the Illusive Man had somehow managed to—

"Mess Sergeant Gardner has finished breakfast preparations. It is advisable to nourish oneself before departing for a mission."

"I'll be there in five, EDI," Shepard replied, stepping out, hands tight around the damp towel. Knuckles as white as the cotton.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Unlike most stations Shepard had visited, Omega did not have mornings.

On the Citadel, time passed as if on Earth, from the pink of early morning to the crimson of late sunset. Most races had come from planets with day-night cycles, after all, and the atmosphere simulators were a nice touch.

Omega was just neon and eternal black skies, a nocturnal life that never saw the white of dawn. It wore her out more than she would've expected it. Even with all the cybernetic implants they had upgraded her with, Shepard felt tired all the time.

Today, the psychological exhaustion had sore company. Wiping out three gangs in five hours did that to you – but, then again, she could live with cramps and bruises. Living with the guilt of knowing Garrus had lost his squad, then half of his face? She'd pick physical pain any day. That one would always pass.

"He's one tough son of a bitch," Jacob said, after hours of unease and apprehension.

Shepard had stared at her hand for longer than she'd ever thought possible, that wet, choking sound Garrus had made replaying in her skull. Over and over and over.

"The doc says he's stable, now,” Jacob added, when faced with Shepard’s silence.

"Good," she replied, with a mechanical nod.

The feeling of relief was too heavy, though, and her shoulders slumped under its weight. Jacob caught it, like she knew he would, but he was tactful enough to merely nod back, salute, and exit the room.

The doors slid shut behind him.

Shepard leant against the table, pressing her hands against her face and taking a deep breath. For once, she didn't care that EDI had an ever-present eye on her, didn't care that Miranda would probably see the momentary weakness in the video logs.

Finding Garrus only to lose him had been a heavy blow. Shepard wanted— _needed_ , really—a crew she could trust. A crew without a link to the Illusive Man, a crew whose words and actions were genuine. Joker and Dr. Chakwas were building a lighthouse in the middle of the treacherous waters (she would have drowned without them), but on the field Shepard had no lifeboat.

It was hard to make decisions on the fly knowing they would be later dissected by Miranda, and harder still to trust Cerberus not to shoot her in the back once they considered her work here was done.

In those moments, Shepard's only saving grace was reminding herself that they needed her. At least until the Collector threat had been neutralized. But what then? And what _until_ then? Was it still symbiosis when both parties were expecting to be betrayed, or just politics?

She frowned, pinching the bridge of her nose, ignoring the way her skin stretched at the cheekbones.

The doors to the Comm Room slid open. Shepard did not have to look up to know it was Garrus—the sound of his footsteps was recognizable enough among a mostly-human crew—and by the time they exchanged looks, her lip was already quirking to the side.

The same night, staring at the deep blue light of the fish tank, Shepard traced the line of her right cheek, mapping out the ridges, the regret, the realization. She wondered if the jokes had been a defense mechanism, wondered if he'd been inwardly devastated, wondered if he'd touched at his scars like she was doing now. Then she closed her eyes, fell back onto the bed, and felt utterly useless.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"It was unfortunate," the Illusive Man said, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray. Bits of red fell out of the ceramic circle, darkening into black before they hit the floor.

"Unfortunate?" Shepard echoed, crossing her arms. "I just received a thank you note doubling as a death threat. The body count was unimaginable. The radius of the debris—"

"Is unfortunate as well, I imagine," the Illusive Man cut in, sliding between her words like a knife into a slab of meat. "I've already sent a clean-up team, and there are plenty of survivors in the escape pods. What _matters_ , Shepard, is that you managed to recover Jack safely." Then he paused, as if the admittance physically wounded him: "I did not expect Kuril's greed would speak higher than his sense of self-preservation, but you succeeded in spite of it. I'd call that a victory."

The satisfaction in his voice was a slap to the face. The underlying point he was trying to make was just as obvious: what were a few lives compared to the sanctity of the mission? What was an exploding station compared to the obliteration the Reapers had promised? Shepard didn't have to think hard to know he was right, but she couldn't admit it to herself, much less to him.

When she didn't answer right away, trying to temper her anger, the Illusive Man went on, crossing his legs.

"They were vicious criminals and corrupt guards, Shepard. You, yourself, described Kuril as a slave trader."

 _So he watched the vids from the security cameras_ , Shepard realized, feeling the bile rise up her throat. The Illusive Man tented his fingers, seemingly unaware of her plights, and cocked his head just so.

"Surely you aren't _too_  torn up about this?" he asked, and there was a smile in that voice.

Behind him, the burning star bled like a rainbow, but the Illusive Man's profile was just a squiggly stripe of red. Shepard closed her hands, felt the blunt line of her nails digging into her palm, and logged off without a word.

It felt like losing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Joker's current argument with EDI was amusing enough for Shepard to laugh, but her stomach was still tied up in knots. EDI logged off with a somewhat peeved, "Depressurizing airlock chamber, Mr. Moreau", and the Normandy touched ground. Shepard's balance shifted, and not because of landing protocols.

Returning to the Citadel was not easy. It hadn't even been a month, and the memory of its hallways and holographic skies was still fresh. But then she remembered the rest of the galaxy had moved on; two years had rolled by. The Citadel had evolved (yet somehow not changing at all).

And she'd been dead.

It was only then she felt out-of-place, staring at the approaching station through the shutters, expecting something else than the Citadel's comfortable and perpetual denial issues. Expecting nothing but the Citadel's denial issues and stale politics. Did it even matter? Would the Council even bother meeting with her? Would Anderson even give her the benefit of the doubt?

While she'd been suiting up and and packing her weapons, her stomach had been somersaulting. What did he know about the circumstances of her death? What did he expect her to say once they met? If he were to accuse her, as Tali had—a step back, a curt tone, it had _stung_ —Shepard wouldn't be able to take it. Anderson's disappointment would be more devastating than the cold bite of space had been.  

The long trip through the relays had only deepened her anxiety, a four-hour foray into possibilities. Shepard had spent half of it practicing her biotic pulls and wondering if Garrus' presence would assuage Anderson. If Garrus’ presence would assuage _her_.

At the two hour mark, she'd emerged from a shower, muscles still tense, and her gaze fell onto the brandy she'd bought in Omega. It had been an easy choice to visit Dr. Chakwas, then. She had briefed Shepard on the scarring—permanent, but his eyesight and his auditory canals would be fine—but also admitted that Garrus could accompany her out on the field, if absolutely necessary.

Shepard had been more than willing to pinpoint Dr. Chakwas' levels of necessity. She had taken the time with her drink, and waited, and then the good doctor had been startlingly honest:

"Oh, just take him with you. I am worried he might go cuckoo if he stays in here too long," she'd confided, in a murmur. Shepard had been swaying in her chair, thoughts of his dead squad flitting across her mind, the sweet brandy making her nauseous. "I swear, you two are the worst patients I have ever come across."

Shepard had been fast to relent, after that. Or maybe she’d already done so. Garrus was someone familiar, someone who still had her back, and she figured a few hours away from the Cerberus ship would do him good. Or maybe she just wanted to reassure herself that Garrus knew her, that she was still Commander Shepard. Hell, she didn't know. She didn't know where her altruism stopped, where her selfishness began.

The airlock opened, bringing with it the cool, fabricated air flow of the Citadel.

Miranda saw them off with with crossed arms, but she didn't directly complain.

"If looks could kill," Garrus muttered, as the doors closed behind them.

Shepard's answering chuckle was little more than a huff, but his mandibles half-flared in reply anyway, like he was pleased he'd gotten the human saying right. One plate lifted higher than the other, though, and he winced in the edge of her peripheral vision.

Did his jaw hurt, still? Did his mandibles feel like frosted glass, ready to break, like the sides of her face did? Did she regret bringing him along? She only knew the answer to one of these questions – she'd missed having him around. There was no space for regret alongside the relief.

"She's been on edge since we recruited Jack," Shepard replied, searching for a free skycar, a place to go to. Cerberus ships landed on private docks. Shepard was still used to the Alliance area, and it all felt so damn wrong. "I don't blame her."

"Dr. Lawson likely upset over not being invited. Wanted to oversee meeting with Anderson. Hinders ability to control the Commander's steps. Respect her for not attempting to manipulate decision," was Mordin's quick response. Then he paused, tapping at his wrist like a metronome on stims. "Wonder if she has been barred from bugging the Commander's uniform. Wonder if she would try anyway."

Shepard hadn't known Mordin for long enough to tell if he was joking or simply being blunt, but her stomach would've tightened either way. She brought up her omni-tool and read over Gardner's supply list again, a bitter taste in her mouth.

"You really think she would go that far?" Garrus asked, and though the dry amusement was still present in his voice, Shepard caught the underlying threat.

"Impossible to say for certain," Mordin went on. "Early incidents in the lab suggest it is not completely unlikely."

 _If it were up to me_ , Miranda had said, offering the sort of pleasant smile that never reached her eyes. _If it were up to me, I'd have installed a control chip in your brain_. Shepard caught herself scrubbing at her temples as she skimmed the requisition, and stopped before either of them could notice. Then she remembered they didn't know about it, and felt stupidly paranoid, felt stupidly fragile.

"Well, Shepard is definitely not bugged," Garrus countered, a palpable smirk in his voice. She closed her omni-tool's task list, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow. His plates shifted again in a smile, as he said: "I checked."

"Always at my six, huh, Vakarian?" she asked, smirking back, and pretended not to notice Mordin's penetrating stare.

"Always at your six, Shepard," he replied, nodding, and, despite her newfound perpetual mistrust, Shepard believed him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Some days, she forgot that the people surrounding her were part of Cerberus.

Miranda reminded her just by breathing, and Jacob's uncertainty wasn't tangible enough for Shepard to ignore his ties to the organization. But the crew – the crew was hard-working and determined, and they wouldn't have looked out of place in an Alliance ship. They shared stupid jokes when they thought she was out of earshot, muttered worriedly about their families' safety, and they spent their time off-duty playing cards and sharing cheap liquor.

It was almost as if she was back on the SR-1, as if nothing had changed. But then the bubble popped, and Shepard reminded herself that the ship— _this_ ship—was not her home. It was a trap, designed by a dangerous hunter, and it was working.

Shepard refused to be prey. She adapted, evolved, and Mordin noticed.

"Shepard. You are spending more time in your cabin than you used to," he piped in, once Shepard had finished the last of her research for biotic upgrades.

Shepard suppressed a frown, but couldn't help biting the inside of her cheek as she thought.

Anderson had once been a home she could return to – a trust she couldn't find anywhere else in the galaxy – and Shepard had found the door again, but still felt like she'd used the wrong key. He had offered his support, as far as he could, and she'd been reinstated as a Spectre, but she'd been aching for a different kind of assurance. She'd been dead, she'd been _dead_ , and she'd still been brought back to deal with a problem no one else had bothered to—

Her mouth tasted like blood, suddenly, all sharp tang. Shepard relaxed, swallowing and running her tongue over the wall of her cheek.

Mordin didn't notice, or at least pretended not to, and the fabricated relief returned.

"My fish keep dying. I’ve been going over the tank’s instructions’ manual," she said, leaning against his desk and staring at the rainbow of chemical compounds. Then she found herself thinking of Wrex, and the bright colors didn't look as pretty as they had only seconds before. "I'm surprised you noticed. 'You that bored, Mordin?"

"Not bored. Well, not _really_ ," he replied, without looking away from his test tubes. "Bored would mean more dynamic, physical activity. Merely—attentive. STG habits hard to break despite retirement, like Alliance ones. Hands folded behind back, feet apart for greater balance, making daily rounds around ship. Been breaking the pattern—stress-related issue? Can provide list of—"

"Mordin," Shepard cut in, this time mimicking an amusement she did not truly feel, "I can always get more fish. And if you're bored, I'm sure we can get you some more samples for you to test on."

The salarian brought his eyes to hers, then, and went exactly four seconds without blinking. Shepard felt as though she was inside a petri dish, and the thought made her feel unsteady, though she couldn't exactly pinpoint why. She’d always been under analysis; an Alliance soldier with her career track was constantly being watched. And yet, her hands caught the metal edge of the lab table, knuckles white.

"Will drop subject if bothering you, Shepard," Mordin eventually said, still staring. The uncharacteristic focus was a sign he was nearing conclusions, and Shepard strained for a distraction she could use.

One of the chemicals to his right was boiling, the green color frothing against the glass. _There_ , she thought, like she did when scoping an enemy's forehead. She nodded at it, a clean shot, and Mordin startled, muttering a myriad of different words under his breath as he turned down the beakers and made reparations.

"Right. I guess I'll just leave you to it," she said, smirking, the sides of her face like frosted glass.

It had been a cheap way out, but she still felt relieved when the doors to the lab slid to a close behind her. A battle won _was_ a battle won, and Shepard could not afford to lose in such dangerous grounds.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The helmet felt a lot heavier than she remembered.

As the Amada system faded behind their state-of-the-art propulsors, Shepard stared at the cracked glass where the visor had been.

Before, she would've been able to see her reflection, scars and all. Now it was only a scratched mess of pointed shards and torn padding. The paint had been peeled off by the heat as she'd fallen into the atmosphere. She had been wearing it at the time; had been scratching at the nape of it, desperate hands reaching for the oxygen tubes she knew had ripped open, the sharp, cold feeling of asphyxiation— 

Shepard inhaled, and it caught in her throat.

The area around her desk smelled like metal and coffee, and the temperature of the cabin was warm, perfectly adjusted to please human physiology. Her fish, the second batch she'd bought, swam lazily behind her, unaware of anything but the water around them.

Shepard stared at her helmet again, feeling cold.

She had gone to Alchera by herself. Miranda had been deeply and quietly dissatisfied, Jacob had saluted as always, Mordin had made a twitchy motion with his mouth, Jack had not cared in the least, and Garrus had been as silent and frosty as the planet. It had been hard not to bring him along, but harder even to entertain the notion of having him there.

"Do you object to this?" Shepard had asked, after the briefing, before her shuttle's deployment.

She had been fiddling with the latches in her gloves. It had been difficult to look at him, and so she hadn't, frowning at her wrists instead.

"No," Garrus had replied, tone curt and closed. "You have your reasons, I'm sure."

And she'd had. Of course she'd had. The SR-1 marked another era of her life—hell, it marked another _life_ —and for once Shepard had exercised the selfishness she was so rarely allowed to.

The SR-1 had been hers, once. Just hers. The SR-1 had been her first step into command, a door into responsibility and duty. It had been small, simple missions, a dear crew, and a familiar security she was no longer able to feel. The SR-1 had been Anderson, Jenkins, Kaidan, Pressly, and Commander Shepard. The current Shepard (whoever she was now) would not—could not—share its disintegrated corpse with anyone else, no matter how hollow the sight had made her feel.

Her hamster squeaked when she leaned back on her chair, abandoning its food plate in exchange for hiding once more. She looked down at her lap again, at the spot where her unscarred thumb fondled the cracked visor.

The helmet felt heavier, but, in the end, the twenty dog tags in her pockets weighed far more than a piece of charred armor ever could.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Miranda's office was always cooler than the mess hall. EDI had warned Shepard about the energy consumptions and the working AC units, but it wouldn't have mattered otherwise; the air flow as the doors slid open was obvious enough to demonstrate the difference in temperature.

"Efficient as always, Shepard," Miranda said, reaching out to receive the data-pad with a practiced sleight of hand. Her fingers never touched Shepard's. "Thank you."

"No problem," Shepard replied, though she always wondered how many Cerberus agents read through her reports. Though she always wondered if the information she was feeding Cerberus would make it grow stronger than it should ever be. "Do you need anything else, Miranda?"

Miranda had been Officer Lawson at first. With time, Shepard realized that using her first name was easier, though she didn't know if it was from the forced familiarity or from the attempt to forget Miranda was still Officer Lawson, the Illusive Man's right hand.

"Actually," Miranda began, "I was hoping to speak with you, Commander."

Shepard blinked. Miranda was always _of course, Commander_ , and never _if I might, Commander_. Miranda was video log replays and clever silences and Shepard's heart tightened beneath her ribs, pumping madly, just like it had the first time she'd woken up, gasping for air and reaching out for the blurry outline of a woman.

"Go ahead," she managed, leaning against the wall and smoothing her face into patient blankness.

Miranda's gaze met hers at the same time she intertwined her fingers. She always did that when she thought the conversational subject was important.

"Have you been sleeping well, Commander?"

Shepard blinked again—almost reached for the skin under her eyes—and then cocked her head. The grip around her forearms tightened.

"What is this about, Miranda?" she asked back, and offered the fondly condescending smirk she reserved for these kinds of conversations. The scars, though somewhat faded, still prickled when Shepard did so, a painful reminder of her falseness. "The bed is fine. Better than the last one I had, at least."

Miranda did not smile back. It was one of the things Shepard had come to appreciate about her: she did not try to assuage Shepard with fabricated warmth. Not anymore, at least. A far cry from the cold-eyed politeness she had so eagerly offered in the beginning. This lack of coddling was more honest and more personal, though it had taken Shepard a while to realize.

"I have perfect eyesight, Shepard," Miranda replied, fingers still intertwined. "Besides, the bags under your eyes are not what I would call subtle."

Shepard pushed off the wall, arms still crossed.

"I'm a busy woman," Shepard said, shrugging, and thought of hours spent staring at the ceiling of her cabin. She was very close to figuring out how many screws had been used on the metal plates. "When I find the time, you can bet I'll be putting that expensive mattress to good use."

Miranda frowned, then, but Shepard had already put an end to the conversation, and it was easy to leave after that. Miranda was an exceptional XO, after all; she knew where the line was, what it meant, and would never dream of crossing it unless strictly necessary.

Conversely, Shepard dreamed of the stars, and how cold they’d been.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm not _with_ Cerberus," Shepard had said, voice echoing throughout Horizon's empty bunkers.

"And you," Garrus had said, flicking his mandibles at Ashley in a way that translated across cultures, "don't know what you're talking about."

She had kept her hands closed until the Normandy's doors opened. The doubt, however, had remained even as she reached the quietude of her cabin. What _was_ she, then? Using Cerberus, being asked to employ trained assassins, greedy mercenaries, stealthy thieves. She'd never been a person to whom the end justified the means.

Then again, it had been easier to be forgiving when she'd been with the Alliance. It had been easier to be fair when she had been working for people with hearts, no matter how misguided they were.

"Commander," EDI called, "Officer Vakarian is asking to see you."

Shepard looked down at the metal sink, averting her gaze from the mirror. Her stomach clenched at the same time her hands did.

Garrus had never asked to see her in her quarters. Shepard was the one who decided when and where to meet her crew, and he knew it better than anyone on this ship. The discomfort was quick to set in, but the anxiety was even faster.

"Send him in, EDI," she sighed, stepping out of the bathroom, trying to look as if she hadn't spent long minutes analyzing her scars (herself).

Her private terminal was flashing with the warning of unread messages, and Shepard sat, browsing through her inbox like she should've done in the first place. Hackett's name flashed at her, pixel-clean, and she felt another wave of exhaustion wash over her.

"Hey," Garrus called, as the doors slid open.

Shepard changed the display, picking the squad's vital records instead, and then turned the wheeled chair around.

"Hey, yourself," she replied, forcing a smirk.

Lying was something she often averted with Garrus, but Horizon was still weighing on her, and she was not yet ready to deal. If he noticed, he didn't show it – she was thankful for that, and almost wanted to tell him, but could not demonstrate it without being completely honest. And honesty was hard to come by, these days.

"What's going on, Vakarian?" she asked, motioning towards the couch on the other side of the plexiglass.

Garrus lingered awkwardly by the door, as if he wasn't sure whether to come in or stay there. Shepard pretended not to see, rising from her chair and walking past, removing two discarded data-pads from the dark cushions and setting them on the closest counter. By then, Garrus had finally decided to follow.

"Shepard," he said, folding his arms behind his back. "Sorry about barging in like this," he was quick to add, before she could get a word in, "but I needed to talk to you, and I'm pretty sure your cabin is the only place on the ship with no surveillance."

This from the man who could hack a cam in minutes. This wasn't about surveillance, it was about making sure they weren't interrupted.

Shepard sat down; Garrus remained standing. The bottle of ice brandy she'd shared with Dr. Chakwas winked at her from the coffee table, nearly empty, and the discomfort she'd felt upon inviting him in grew twofold. She found herself wishing she'd thrown it away, but didn't know why.

"It's fine, Garrus," she lied, trading the pacifying smile for a more genuine frown. "What's on your mind?"

He looked so strange, standing still and stiff by the aquarium, the eerie blue glow sharpening the angles of his silhouette. She was used to seeing him in the red of the battery room, not in the lit space of her room.

Some of her fish—third batch—had stopped to stare at him.

"Shepard," Garrus said, inhaling sharply, shoulders rising, "it's just – I mean, I just – I want to make sure you know you're not alone in this."

She knew. It still didn't make it easier. It should've, but it didn't. Camaraderie ended on the field, or on the mess hall. Her cabin was something else. It meant she'd have the Illusive Man's queries to answer. It meant she'd have Hackett's encrypted messages to read. It meant she'd have to keep herself busy when sleep eluded her, and those nights always ended with the bathroom's mirror, with the daunting doubt.

"Hell, Garrus," Shepard murmured, shoulders slumping despite herself.

For once, she didn't know what excuse would fit the situation. No one else had been so startlingly direct. No one else could, she realized, and wanted to look away. She didn't.

"You're not okay, Shepard," Garrus went on, allowing his hands to fall beside his hips. The fish behind him dispersed, no longer interested in the newest shape in the room. "Your scars aren't healing, and you keep touching the back of your neck when we're on the field, and—" he let the word linger. "And you _died_ , Shepard."

"Do you expect me to apologize?" she joked, leaning back on the couch and offering an insincere smirk.

Ashley had been so angry at her. So accusing. And Shepard still didn't know if she'd been right.

"No," Garrus said, sounding defeated. His mandibles twitched, as if in search for something to say, and she glanced at his scars, stomach twisting. "I expect you to trust me, like you said you did." Then, after a pause, he added: "Commander."

Shepard held his gaze while she thought, her hands gripping at the inside of her elbows.

Garrus hadn't moved from his spot – nor did he seem inclined to do so any time soon.

"You're right," she finally said, closing her eyes. But she still didn't know how to phrase all the things running through her head. A part of her knew Garrus would wait for as long as she'd need him to, but another was adamant in keeping her insecurities under lock and key.

Shepard pinched the bridge of her nose, then allowed her fingers to press against the fading ridges of her scars. Garrus' would take more time to heal, but they were his, they were _his._

"Garrus," Shepard finally said, opening her eyes, "do you think am I still—?"

She couldn't bring herself to finish. Garrus blinked at her, taken by surprise.

"Hell, Shepard; of course you are," he said, gaze unwavering.

Even though it was his back that faced the light of the aquarium, his eyes were overwhelmingly bright and clear. There was no speck of doubt in them, only flecks of blue and sea-green.

"Anyone else would've given up on this stinking galaxy ages ago. Trust me," he added, cocking a hip and flicking his mandibles in his own version of an uncertain smirk, "I'd certainly know."

An odd, weightless feeling swarmed her, and, for the first time in months—despite the weight of things unsaid, despite the ghosts surrounding both of them, despite the constant ache on her chest—Shepard smiled.

“Hey,” she managed, and offered a smile lopsided with emotion, “thanks, Garrus.”

“Anytime,” he said at once, and brought his hand against her arm. The gravel in his voice was smoothed over by the gentleness of his touch, lukewarm talons knocking against the angle of her shoulder, and it felt just like it had before she’d died.

Shepard knew it to be the truth, then. She leaned in too, punching him back with a grin, and it felt like nothing was wrong.

“Always at my six,” she said, hand pressed against his shoulder for longer than it should.

“Always,” he replied, and kept his hand on her shoulder, too.

When the comfortable silence stretched for too long, toeing the line of awkward territories, Garrus rose and bid her a formal, if uncertain, goodbye.

Shepard walked him to the door, watched the elevator doors close, and sat on her chair again, facing endless communication logs and messages. Because, after all, the universe kept on regardless of her pace, and Shepard had no intentions of falling behind. And even though she still woke up in a cold sweat that night, it was easier to turn over and try again, cold-star thoughts replaced by flecks of organic blue.


End file.
